Lukowski said soothingly, "You're okay now, Danny. You're in hospital. You're safe. But you have to tell me who did this to you. Tell me who had the knife."

A hoarse whisper emerged from Cavolini's mouth: one faint, aspirated syllable, then silence. My skin crawled with predictable monkey's paw horror—but I felt an idiotic surge of exultation, too, as if part of me simply refused to accept that this sign of life could not be a sign of hope.

Cavolini tried again, and the second attempt was more sustained. His artificial exhalation, detached from voluntary control, made it sound like he was gasping for breath; the effect was pitiful—but he wasn't actually short of oxygen at all. His speech was so broken and tortuous that I couldn't make out a single word, but an array of piezoelectric sensors was glued to his throat, and wired to a computer. I turned to the display panel.

Why can't I see?

Lukowski said, "Your eyes are bandaged. There were a couple of broken blood vessels, but they've been repaired; there'll be no permanent damage, I promise. So just… lie still, and relax. And tell me what happened."

What time is it? Please. I better call home. I better tell them—

"We've spoken to your parents. They're on their way, they'll be here as soon as possible."

That much was true—but even if they showed up in the next ninety seconds, they would not be allowed into the room.

"You were waiting for the train home, weren't you? Platform four. Remember? Waiting for the ten-thirty to Strathfield. But you didn't get on. What happened?" I saw Lukowski's gaze shift to a graph below the transcript window, where half a dozen rising curves recording improved vital signs were extended by dashed computer projections. All of the projected curves hit their peaks a minute or so in the future, then swiftly declined.